


Your Claws in Me

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Showing up on Sam's doorstep bloody and battered probably wasn’t the best way to break three years of silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Claws in Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [madebyme-x](http://madebyme_x.livejournal.com/) for the [spn-j2-xmas](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) exchange. Hopefully you enjoy this! I tried to incorporate a number of your likes and while I didn't directly use any of your prompts I gleaned a little influence from a couple of them.

He rolled over in bed.

The sheets were soft against his skin, and a comforter was tucked securely over his shoulders. He felt unusually comfortable and knew for damn sure he wasn’t in his motel room. One, there wasn’t that weird spring sticking up into his hip, and two, everything smelled _nice_ —like laundry detergent and a familiar shampoo. Why it was familiar evaded him however, and his mind was a little too foggy to contemplate it for long.

He dragged himself up into a seated position. 

His body ached, and his chest and arm were particularly tender. Looking down, he realized both were neatly bandaged. A quick peak beneath the one on his chest revealed a neat row of stiches. He couldn’t remember doing that, and he knew he couldn’t have done nearly as nice of a job. He raked a hand through his hair, and tried to piece together events from the previous night. Last he could remember was chasing that damn werewolf into an alley. He’d been thrown into a wall and everything got a little bloody and black after that. 

Now, sliding off of the bed, he looked around. 

He tried to spot a clue to where he was. 

The shades were drawn to keep out the bright sunlight, and the bed took up most of the small bedroom. There was a dresser a few steps away. On top was a stack of books, some spare change, and a framed photo.

The photo was what caught his eye.

It was of him, his father, his mother, and—

“Sammy,” he whispered.

Shit.

It came back to him now. 

The werewolf had jumped a fence and darted off into the night. He’d been left for dead, bleeding profusely and his car a good mile or two away. His desperate and woozy mind had danced between 911 and Sam (he’d looked Sam up and knew he’d lived only a block away—he’d thought about stopping in and saying hey but more pressing matters had presented themselves and hey, it was the thought that counted anyway). 

His delirious self had clearly dutifully stowed the information away however and chosen to put it into motion.

Dread twisted in his stomach.

Sam must have been furious. Probably still was furious. Dean had done his best to stay out of his life since he'd left for college, and showing up on his doorstep bloody and battered probably wasn’t the best way to break three years of silence.

He cursed beneath his breath and looked around. 

The only clothing he currently donned was a pair of boxers, and he didn’t see his clothing anywhere in sight. In the dresser however he found a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Both Sam’s, presumably, and both a little big but no matter; he just needed to get out of there, and quick.

Hopefully Sam would be at class or something. 

Cracking the door, he crept out into the living space. It was equally small, but he was more inclined to call it cozy. Books were stacked on many of the surfaces, and he felt a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. _Nerd_ , he thought. But he quickly quieted the thought and headed straight for the door.

Before he could reach it, it opened.

Sam walked in, a laundry basket tucked against his hip and a bag from a drug store in his hand. Dean took a long, shaky step back at the sight of him. He looked good. His hair was a little longer, and his face was a little fuller, but he was still _Sammy_. It wasn’t until this moment that he realized just how much he’d missed his brother.

“Didn’t think you’d be up,” Sam said. He’d spotted him immediately. “You should be in bed.”

“I should get going, actually,” Dean started to say, testing the waters. 

Sam was shook his head. He set the bag down on the coffee table and nodded towards the couch, as if telling him to sit. Dean found himself wandering back in its direction. He took a seat.

“Not so fast,” Sam told him. “Gotta check your stiches and change your bandages. Plus, I picked up some painkillers and washed your clothing. Your shirt is pretty much destroyed, by the way. I could try to sew it, but you’ve always been better at that sort of thing and I see you already found my stuff anyway so it might be just as well.”

“You didn’t have to do any of that,” he said quietly.

Sam looked at him for a long second before he said, “I know I didn’t. I wanted to.” 

They let it sit at that.

Sam walked over and sat down on the couch next to Dean. Then, he gestured for him to take his shirt off. Dean complied, and Sam reached across the table, pulling the bag from the drug store closer. He removed a couple boxes of bandages and then turned back to Dean. He made a noise in the back of his throat as he studied the bandage and whatever mess lay beneath.

“Looking okay,” he murmured. “What the hell got you, anyway? Werewolf?”

He nodded.

“You get it?”

He shook his head. 

Sam paused and gave him a small smile. “Looks like you put up a fight, at least,” he said.

Dean shrugged. “Still got tonight,” he replied.

Sam _tsked_ his tongue, but if he wasn’t pleased by the idea he didn’t breathe a word. Instead, he simply carried on. He worked swiftly and efficiently, as if it were part of his daily routine and he hadn’t been out of the game for years. 

“There you go,” he said when he was finished. 

“Thanks,” Dean replied. He flexed his arm a little pulled the shirt back over his head. “I really should be getting out of your hair, man. Didn’t exactly tell you I was dropping by.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve always got time for my big brother, especially when I find him bleeding all over my doorstep at three in the morning.”

 _Always got time for my big brother_. The words stung a little. 

“Yeah. Well.” He shifted in his seat. “Look, Sammy—I’ve been meaning to call or something but…” he trailed off. The apology he’d considered thousands of times stalled on his lips.

But Sam understood, words or no words.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re here now, and for what it’s worth: my door’s always open.”

And that was that. 

Dean had always favored brevity, and for once Sam seemed to feel the same. Years of hurt and anger were swept aside and they shared a small, knowing smile. 

“How’ve you been, anyway?” Dean asked.

“Okay, I guess,” said Sam with a small shrug. “Busy with school. I’ve been interning at a firm here, and I’ll start at SLS in the fall.”

“I don’t know what half of that means,” Dean admitted, “but good for you, man.” 

Sam chuckled. “Thanks,” he said. Then—after a pause—he asked, “Hey, you hungry?”

“Always,” Dean answered.

 

* * *

 

They ordered pizza.

The greasiest, cheesiest kind with none of the vegetables Sam used to beg for. Dean felt like he might be catering to him, but he didn’t mind. He ate four slices and they split a six-pack of beer. 

They watched a game on television. They talked a little. They laughed a little

It was… nice.

And it hurt a little to realize how much he’d missed it.

How much he’d missed Sam.

As the day wore on, he kept an eye on the city outside. He knew he should get dressed. That he should sneak out past Sam and finish the job. But he felt awfully tired. A quick nap wouldn’t be out of the question. He could probably use the rest anyhow, if he expected to bag a werewolf in a matter of hours.

He closed his heavy eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He felt a little groggy when he opened them again.

Despite the fact that he was sprawled out on a sofa, he actually felt well rested for once in his life. He began to congratulate himself on achieving one hell of a power nap, but that was when he noticed sunlight outside the window. It trickled in and inched across the floorboards.

“What the hell,” he muttered. He sat up with a start and glanced around.

The clock near the television told him it was five. In the morning, he presumed; either that or he'd traveled back in time, considering he'd gone to sleep at six. 

****

At the table, he saw Sam.

He was shirtless, dressed only in a pair of jeans. He sat hunched over the tabletop, and cursed quietly beneath his breath as he disinfected a jagged gash on his forearm. In addition to that, a wicked bruise covered his ribcage and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked like hell.

“Sammy,” he said. He jumped to his feet, and at the table Sam sighed.

“Little busy here,” he muttered. His focus was on his injured arm. It'd leave a scar, no doubt; one more thing he'd probably have to explain away to all of his friends. His chest, arms, and back were already peppered with old ones. They ranged from small nicks from blades to the larger one on his shoulder, where a bullet had grazed him when he was sixteen. 

Dean knew each and every one's origin, and as far as he was concerned this one was on him.

“Don’t care,” Dean replied. He strode over to his side. “What’s going on here?” He demanded. “You drug me?”

Sam snorted, offended. 

“You honestly think I’d do that to you?” He asked. “You were exhausted, man. And not to mention injured.”

Both were good points. 

This hunt had left him a little ragged between research, interviews, and not to mention the stakeout prior to his unsuccessful takedown. While he averaged four hours of sleep on his best days, he’d been down to one and a half or two in the past week. Exhausted didn’t even begin to describe how he’d been feeling.

Still, it wasn’t an excuse.

It was a sign of weakness.

“Dammit, Sam,” he cursed. “How could you do that?”

“What? Not wake you for a suicide mission? I was fine on my own, man.”

“Yeah, you sure look fine. What with all the blood and bruises.”

“Small price to pay for one less werewolf in the world.”

There was a huff of pride in his voice, and in another world Dean might have congratulated him. Might have patted him on the back or declared it time for a beer. But now? He only felt angry. How could he take his hunt from him like that; how could he put himself in the line of danger—danger that was meant for _him_? He stared at Sam's swollen eye and felt responsible. Guilt twisted in his gut.

"You got it?" He asked hollowly.

“Course I did.” Sam dabbed at the gash and then placed a bandage over top of it. He admired his own handiwork for a moment and then casually added, “What’d you think? That I went soft or something?”

“Something like that,” he muttered.

“Look,” Sam said from the table. “I haven’t seen you in years. Then, you show up on my doorstep half dead and I—I just couldn’t let you walk right back out into a situation that might have actually killed you second time around. Especially not after realizing—" He stopped short, and cleared his throat.

“After realizing what?” Dean asked.

“How much I’ve missed you,” Sam answered after a short pause.

He met Dean’s eye from where he sit, and Dean held his gaze.

It was in that moment that he realized this was a two-way street.

He could have told Sam he felt the same way, but figured he already knew. He was an intuitive bastard, after all.

Instead, they held that gaze for a solid ten seconds before either broke it.

Sam looked down and prodded tenderly at his ribs; Dean looked down and picked absently at his bandages.

“If you don’t mind,” Dean said, after a long minutes of silence. “I might stay another day or two. Get my strength back or whatever.” 

So much lay between each word, but Sam seemed to hear it all.

“I’d like that,” he said.

And that was that.


End file.
